


best laid plans are not sober

by ohallows



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Cuddling, Drunkenness, M/M, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 16:54:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21377398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohallows/pseuds/ohallows
Summary: Hamid’s drunk and missing Zolf.
Relationships: Hamid Saleh Haroun al-Tahan/Zolf Smith
Comments: 4
Kudos: 47





	best laid plans are not sober

**Author's Note:**

> “i still have your phone number memorized even though i haven’t called you since we split and somehow i remembered it even though i’ve had like six shots of bourbon and hey, i know you’re pissed that you’re here at this dingy club at 3 in the morning to pick my drunk ass up, but you have to admit that’s pretty impressive” AU

The bar is spinning around Hamid, a pleasant blur of bright lights and dark wood. He’s been here for at least five or six hours now; he’d honestly lost track once it had gone midnight, and the alcohol has been pouring freely since they all showed up. It was supposed to be a lowkey engagement, a little celebration for finally finishing the project at the al Tahan branch that they'd all been working on for months, but Hamid is more pissed than he has been in a couple months, at least. 

He doesn't really remember who was ordering him all the shots, or maybe it had been  _ him _ ordering all the shots… it doesn’t really matter, he’d knocked each one back with confidence and a round of applause from everyone else at the bar. They’ve all deserved this, honestly; it’s been a stressful few months, but the merger’s set to go through and, better than anything else, Hamid’s father called to tell him he was proud of him. That had been the cause of a few shots at least, and a number of drunk messages that mostly consisted of explanation points to his siblings. 

The party starts winding down eventually; Hamid ends up as the last one left from the work party, everyone else having begun the trek back home to their families, to their significant others, and it's him that’s left moping on a bar stool at 2am and resolutely not thinking about all the ways he could have done things better. Not thinking about it at all, because the second he starts thinking about it the quicker the breakdown will be, and today’s supposed to be a day of celebration, isn’t it? 

The music in the bar is still quietly playing in the background and Hamid rests his head on his arms, trying to fight off the vertigo and the intrusive thoughts. 

He lifts his head from his arms to order another shot and the bartender gives him a concerned look, but still slides the drink over to him. He’s pretty sure the bartender cut it with water, but Hamid doesn’t really have it in him to care at the moment. 

"Last one, okay buddy?" the bartender says, and Hamid pouts slightly, knocking the shot back. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve and holds out a hand to the guy. “No more for you."

Hamid groans in annoyance, pointing up at him with a finger that’s definitely not steady at all. “I’m  _ perfectly  _ \-  _ perfectly  _ fine, I’ll have you know, just  _ wonderful _ .” He hiccoughs as he says it, and claps a hand over his mouth. “That was a  _ fluke.” _

The bartender doesn't so much as skip a beat. "I'm sure you are, but we're closing in 5 minutes and I'm gonna need you to leave."

Hamid groans again and rests his head on the bar. "Can’t I stay here?" he whines, giving the bartender his best pleading gaze, the one that always worked on Aziza and Saleh anytime he wanted something.

"Sorry," the bartender says, looking almost amused. "Policy. Everyone has to be out by 2."

"Oh, dear," Hamid murmurs, flicking at a piece of dust on the bar's surface. He goes to stand up and grabs onto the stool as the world swims around him. "Is this a - your bar is  _ moving _ ." 

The bar itself does seem to be spinning, tilting, and the next thing he knows there's an ice-cold glass of water in his hand and the bartender is ordering him to drink all of it. He does so without hesitation, the condensation dripping down his chin and splashing onto his button-down.

Still. Cold water has never tasted so good. 

The bartender eyes him warily. "How are you getting home, kid?"

Hamid finishes up the glass of water with a loud gasp, and the bartender fills it up again. "Dunno. And I’m not a  _ kid _ ," he mutters, coughing. "Oh! Wait -" he rummages around in his pockets, finally fishing out the keys to his car, spinning them around and almost dropping them on the ground. "I have a car!”

"Absolutely not," the bartender says. He grabs the keys from Hamid’s hand before he can even move, stashing them into his back pocket. "I can't in good conscience let you drive."

"But I'm  _ fine _ , I _ told  _ you, I can’t even feel the alcohol," Hamid says, making an abortive grab for the keys. The bartender looks unimpressed when his arm comes up short and scrapes the edge of the bar instead. 

"You got someone you can call? Because you can't stay here, but there's no way you're driving home tonight."

Hamid frowns but nods in capitulation. The floor is still spinning wildly, so maybe this guy has a point. Maybe. “Where did my keys go?” he asks. They were definitely in his hand a moment ago, he would have  _ sworn  _ they were, and the bartender sighs and pulls them out of his back pocket, showing them to him before putting them back.

Oh. Right. 

He  _ definitely  _ shouldn’t be driving.

“Look, I can call you a cab if -“

“No! No,” Hamid says, holding a hand up. Clumsy fingers scrabble at his pockets for a moment as he feels around for his phone, finally pulling it out. He squints down at the screen, and - honestly, if things could  _ stop spinning  _ for a moment he’d be having a much easier time of it. It takes him longer than it should for him to scroll to the name he needs, and a few tries before he can actually press the call button next to his name. 

It only takes him three seconds to hand the phone to the bartender with an apologetic smile, before he stumbles over to the loo and throws up in the nearest stall. 

\--

Zolf shows up ten minutes later, and Hamid thought he’d been angry the last time they’d seen each other, but that’s got nothing on this. He’s in dark sweatpants and a leather jacket - not the one Hamid bought him, which hits his chest harder than he’d expected it to, even in this state. 

"Hamid, its 2 in the morning," Zolf seethes. "Why the hell did I get a call from a bartender to come pick you up?"

"'Cause," Hamid slurs. "I... don't know anyone else's number."

Zolf shakes his head in disbelief. "Really? Couldn’t have called Aziza? You know she’s in town for a show.”

“I - I -“ Hamid stutters a bit, and the room is bright and making it hard to think, and Zolf looks amazing, just as gorgeous as Hamid remembers, and his brain is  _ really  _ refusing to work with him right now. “Sorry,” is what he settles on, and some of the fight goes out of Zolf’s shoulders. 

"We haven't talked in  _ months _ , Hamid. And the first contact I get from you is from a bartender at a seedy little pub - no offense," he adds, glancing over at the bartender. He shrugs, conceding the point. "At 2 am, no less, and then I have to come and pick you up, because you’re too pissed to drive yourself.”

“I didn’t -“

“Just. Let’s go,” Zolf says, cutting him off, and Hamid takes a step forward and ends up on the floor. He’s not quite sure how it happened; one moment he’s holding on to the barstool, and the next he’s looking up into Zolf’s face, swimming in his vision. He blinks a few times; Zolf’s mouth is moving but Hamid can’t hear what he’s saying. It’s a low buzz in his ears, low and soothing. Slowly, sound starts returning, and Hamid realizes that he couldn’t have been out of it for more than a few seconds.

“- take him to A&E?” Zolf is saying, looking down at him worriedly - and, no, that can’t be right, Zolf wouldn’t look at him like that, not  _ now,  _ not after everything, and he shakes his head, blinking, begging the world to make more sense. 

“He should be fine, just get him in bed and get some water in him,” the bartender says, washing out a glass. “It’ll be alright.” 

“Okay,” Zolf says, “and sorry about him. He isn’t normally like this.”

He deserves it. Hamid  _ knows  _ he deserves it, but it still stings when Zolf says it. “Sorry,” he says again, quieter this time, shame creeping up on him as Zolf reaches down and helps him stand up. The room is still spinning, but  _ less,  _ and the bartender gives him a reassuring smile. 

“No worries, lad. Just get home safe,” he says, and Hamid nods, lump in his throat. He turns to Zolf and there’s a second of hesitation where they just stare at each other, before Zolf wraps Hamid’s arm around his shoulder without speaking. Hamid lets him, and there’s a moment where time seems to stop; Zolf’s warm where their sides brush together, and if Hamid closes his eyes he can pretend none of it happened, that they’re still together and still happy. 

But of course the moment needs to end.

“Hamid, I need you to work with me,” Zolf says, and he’s definitely annoyed now. Hamid does his best to just walk, but his feet still feel too far away from his body, so it’s less graceful and more of an awkward stumbling mess to the door, and then they’re outside, and it’s the middle of winter and Hamid doesn’t have a coat but he can’t feel the cold. 

Zolf does, clearly, shivering, and tries to get them to hurry up. His car isn’t far away; he helps Hamid get into the passenger side and shuts the door before heading to the other side to get in himself. Hamid doesn’t speak in the car on the way back, leaning his head against the blessedly icy window as he watches the city pass by outside. The road is nearly empty, and the lights are turning off one by one as they drive. Zolf doesn’t say anything either, and the radio is suspiciously silent. 

Hamid shifts in his seat and feels one of his feet brush against something plastic; he looks down and spots a mixtape on the floor, one with familiar handwriting along the side. It’s his - the handwriting, that is - and even with the entire car spinning he recognizes it as one he made for Zolf years ago, now. Just… laying on the floor. Discarded. He glances over at Zolf and only catches his profile. His jaw is set as he stares forward, eyes locked ahead, and Hamid feels the ghost of… something slip farther out of reach. 

Just another reminder, he supposes, and it’s not the chill outside that causes him to curl up on himself, arms wrapping around his knees as he leans against the door and tries not to cry.

He’s still pissed, he knows that, but he passed the milestone of ‘happy drunk’ an hour or so ago, and is left stuck in a cycle of every mistake he’s ever made. It’s not a particularly fun experience, if he’s being honest. 

Thankfully, the car ride doesn’t last too long, and then Zolf is shifting the car into park and killing the engine. He doesn’t move for a moment, even with the car off, and Hamid turns to look at him again. It almost looks like he wants to say something, and Hamid almost doesn’t care what it’s going to be as long as it breaks them out of this silence, but Zolf just sighs and gets out of the car. 

Hamid bites his lip and wraps his arms tighter around his knees, sniffing for a moment before getting out himself. His legs still don’t want to listen to him, not in the slightest, and Zolf’s there before he can fall again, strong, solid arm slipping around his waist and catching him. 

“Up you get, Hamid,” he says, and it’s soft in a way that Hamid knows isn’t for him, not anymore, but he’s not sober enough to care. Sometimes, it’s enough to pretend.

The walk up to Hamid’s flat is just as much of a struggle as getting out of the bar was, neither of them helped by the ice coating the pavement. 

“Where are your keys?” Zolf asks, and Hamid opens his eyes, blinking blearily up at him. “Hamid. Keys. It’s bloody cold out.”

Keys. Right. Keys. He racks his brain, because they had been in his pocket at the bar, and - “the. The bartender has them. He didn’t let me drive.”

“Thank heavens for small mercies, that, but now we can’t get  _ in _ , Hamid.”

He opens his mouth to suggest that Zolf uses his own spare, but the words die on the tip of his tongue when he remembers that he took the spare back months ago, after Zolf left. “There’s - there’s a spare under the mat. Top left corner.”

Zolf gives him an unreadable glance, and pulls back slightly. “Are you going to fall if I let go?”

Hamid shakes his head no, and he must look more comfortable than he feels because Zolf does, bending over to peel the mat back and grab the small silver key sitting there. Hamid only sways a bit, which he considers a victory, and then Zolf’s arm is back around his waist as he fumbles to unlock the door with only one hand. 

It takes a little longer than normal, long enough for Hamid to start feeling the chilly bite of the air. They stumble into the flat together and Zolf’s arm still doesn’t leave Hamid’s waist; he shuts and locks the door, and then they’re making their way to Hamid’s room. Zolf deposits him unceremoniously on the bed, and folds his arms while he stares down at him. Hamid lays flat on his back and just looks up to the ceiling, before squeezing his eyes shut and begging the room to stop spinning.

“Can you…” Zolf trails off, and Hamid opens one eye a crack to see him making a vague gesture toward Hamid, which he really can’t parse, especially not in his current state. “Change?” 

Oh. Yes. Yes, he can do that. “I, er - yes, it’s fine.” 

Zolf nods, stilted and awkward. “I’m just going to - er…” he points toward the bathroom and Hamid nods. The door shuts gently behind him and Hamid sits up, head resting in his hands before he runs a hand through his hair. It’s just - it’s been so  _ long _ and everything’s so horrid and  _ awkward _ , and - and… and Hamid needs to change. He needs to change, and he’s still drunk, so changing becomes less about finding his lovely silk pajamas and more about kicking his shoes off and changing into the closest thing he has before burying under the covers.

The room is still spinning, and the nausea is finally gone but he's still riding that fine line between drunken idiocy and drunken loneliness. He's so tired, but his bed is so large and it hasn't actually felt like his bed ever since Zolf left. The door opens as Zolf towels off his hands, and he gives Hamid a critical look, likely making sure he hasn’t somehow killed himself in the few minutes he had his eyes off him. Whatever he sees must reassure him, because some of the stress lines around his eyes even out. 

He turns back toward the sink and grabs a cup, holding it under the faucet. Hamid’s struck so suddenly by a sense of nostalgia, so strongly, and he blames that for what he says next, filter completely gone.

"Zolf?" Hamid asks, voice small. "Can you stay, just for tonight?" 

Zolf’s back stiffens and he doesn't turn around. "What for?" he asks, and his voice has that carefully neutral tone that Hamid hates. 

"I miss you. And one night won't hurt, right?"

"I don't think that would be a good idea." Zolf is still facing away from him, and Hamid still can’t read his tone, but he’s just - he’s so  _ tired _ of being alone, in this big stupid flat and this big stupid bed.

"It's probably not," he says, and his voice is quieter than normal, but he can see Zolf flinch at it. "Still?"

Zolf’s hands flex on the sink and he makes a half-aborted move to leave before his gaze steadfastly returns to the mirror above the sink.

There's a beat of silence. If there's one thing Hamid learned while they were together, it's that sometimes Zolf just needs time to weigh out every option in his head. Hamid got better at giving him time, at not pushing and pushing until Zolf snapped. 

And sure enough, Zolf lets out a soft breath through his nose. "Fine. Just because I think you might choke on your own vomit if I leave."

Zolf finishes up whatever ritual he was doing in the bathroom and pads back into the room in sock-clad feet. He sinks down into the armchair across from the bed, eyes hidden. 

Hamid squeezes the comforter. His head (and self-filtering system) are still flying around in whiskeyland, so it's no surprise when the first thing he blurts out is, "Could you come and lay down with me?"

He can't even blame Zolf for the suspicious look he receives. “Hamid…” 

“I know, I  _ know _ , we’re - we’re not anything anymore, but I just -“ and, gods, Hamid refuses to cry over this again, he’s done that enough, but he misses Zolf so powerfully that his entire being  _ aches _ , and maybe it’s just the alcohol or maybe it’s just  _ him _ , but the thought of having to watch Zolf leave  _ again _ hurts,  _ burns. _ “Please,” is all he can think to say, a breath more than a word, and he can’t read Zolf’s expression anymore, bracing himself for rejection.

“Fine,” Zolf says, and Hamid could cry  _ again _ with the relief of it, the way it feels like a balm against his soul. Zolf is awkward with it, and he still won’t look at Hamid, but that’s okay because for at least a little bit Hamid can pretend he didn’t ruin everything.

Zolf doesn’t get under the covers, doesn’t do anything except take his shoes and jacket off, and he can’t be that comfortable but he does wrap his arm around Hamid’s waist and pull him closer. He can feel Zolf through the covers, even, a solid press of warmth against him that Hamid’s missed ever since they broke up. Can smell him, the gentle sea salt aroma that he’s never really been able to figure out. 

For tonight, Hamid can pretend. Can pretend it’s fine, that they’re happy again, that this isn’t something else he’s selfishly taking for himself. Tomorrow it will all go back to normal, once the buzz of the alcohol has worn off. 

He lets his eyes slip closed and focuses on the feel of Zolf against him, memorizes how he fits in his arms. Memorizes the feeling of Zolf’s beard scratching against the back of his neck. Memorizes all of it, because he knows it’s not going to be something he gets again. 

Somewhere in between lacing his fingers with Zolf’s and wishing he had to courage to kiss him, he falls asleep. 

When he wakes up his bed is cold, and he’s alone. He expected as much, but that doesn't make it hurt any less. His head is pounding, but the curtains have been drawn around his room, letting minimal light in. All the events of the night before come rushing back and Hamid groans, pressing the heel of his palm against his forehead. It doesn't necessarily help the whole 'in pain' situation, but all he wants to do is try and forget last night. 

There's a bottle of paracetamol on the nightstand, next to a tall, full glass of water and a note. He grabs three tablets and swallows them dry, falling back against the covers and wiping the gunk out of his eyes. 

He doesn't know why he thought he would get anything else. 

**Author's Note:**

> merry nano 
> 
> kudos and comments appreciated !!


End file.
